


100k Pasos

by King Karla (hysteriadreams)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Adult Content, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Language, Short
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 16:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12324267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hysteriadreams/pseuds/King%20Karla
Summary: The two times Cristiano Ronaldo was there for Lionel Messi and the one time he fell in love.





	100k Pasos

**Author's Note:**

> Been toying around with this for over a year now, and I'm so excited to finally be publishing this. Originally, I wanted it to be a two-chapter story but then I got more ideas and decided to add another chapter... however, I'm having new ideas all the time of where I could take this, so it might grow. 
> 
> NOTE: Some words/phrases are in Spanish or Portuguese, but should be easy to figure out. If you need any help translating, let me know. Feedback is greatly appreciated btw!

 

 

13 July 2014

Estadio do Maracana

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

 

_“[...] protégenos y guíanos,_

_danos fuerza hoy para la victoria,_

_para ver el fruto de nuestro trabajo y nuestro sacrificio...”_

 

The silent prayer reverberated through his head, the words cutting deep into his consciousness, etching themselves onto his skin. It was a familiar prayer, one he had dug into his mind long ago and had repeated countless times, but now—on this day, in this moment—it held the weight of the world. The tunnel all of a sudden felt small ( _had it always been this small?_ ) but he kept his composure; as captain, he represented the team and it was his duty to carry the burden that came with it. In his position, he did not dare show weakness, disappointment or fear, especially in the biggest stage of the game. In moments like this however, moments his career had solely prepared him for, it was difficult to put on a brave face. Sure he looked calm and composed on the outside, but every nerve in his body singed with apprehension, burned with anxiety—the biggest stage in the _world_.

 

Standing in the tunnel, he felt the walls vibrate as thousands of fans sung in unison. Hearing the crowd chant usually brought him comfort and made him feel at home, as if reassuring him that he belonged on the field, but at the moment it only added to his restlessness. He could feel the deafening noise pulsing through his skull like one thousand hearts beating simultaneously and he only wished there was a way to shut it all out.

 

“Leo,” a quiet voice called out. He turned to see Mascherano approaching him slowly, his face expressionless; they said nothing, they didn’t have to. Years of sharing the field and training together had taught them a muted language, a quiet bond. A silent exchange passed between them until the older man let out a crooked smile and gripped the back of his captain’s neck with an affectionate squeeze. He lightly pat the midfielder’s arm in return and gave him a small smile; they didn’t need anything else, that had said it all.

 

Getting back into position, he tried to ease his nerves by glancing at the clock on the wall. Two minutes. In just two minutes he was going to walk out there, sing grace to his country, and play the biggest game of his career. He was confident in his team as much as he was proud. They wouldn’t have gotten this far otherwise, yet he could not help thinking that only one of them would emerge as victor. The odds against them were high, the stakes were high, yet the expectations were always higher—especially for himself. Germany was a great team, there was no denying that; one could even argue they were the superior team tonight with a higher success rate, but that wasn’t going to stop Argentina from giving a good fight and taking it to the end.

 

Entranced in his own thoughts, he almost overlooked the small blonde girl who had intertwined her delicate fingers through his damp, callous ones.  He looked down upon her face and was surprised to see her smiling up at him, her glasses sliding down her nose—most kids were shy around him and it was a nice change to see someone who wasn’t. He gave her a small smile and squeezed her hand, to which she beamed proudly.

 

A sudden gesture from the referee quickly snapped his focus back as he signaled they were ready to go.

 

Taking a deep breath, Leo closed his eyes and braced himself for the storm to come.

 

——

 

[ 120’ ]

 

He could feel his jersey clinging to his chest, every inch of his body covered in sweat. Moisture pooled at the nape of his neck and collarbone, dripped from his hair to his shoulders, traveled from his forehead to his jaw and he _felt_ it. He felt it all—the chanting of the crowd, the cries from his teammates, the orders from the sidelines, the beating of his heart, the thoughts racing through his mind—it all resonated within him, vibrating and pulsing and overpowering. It felt as though his senses rose to full capacity and he was suddenly able to process everything around him, all at once. There were few moments in his career where he felt like this, the pressure threatening to rip him in half and swallow him whole.

 

He closed his eyes and tried to shut it all out, taking slow, deep breaths. He knew he was useless if he couldn’t focus, especially when it all depended on him. Looking out over the field, hands on his hips, he put on his best poker face and took a deep breath. He noticed Mascherano silently fighting a German player for control while Rojo hovered towards the left end of the line-up, but everyone had something in common—they were all looking at him expectantly, as if he alone had the chance to change the game, because he did. Argentina’s glory was on the line and like many times before, it all came down to him. He took in his teammates’ silent pleads as he looked into their eyes, and focusing his gaze on the goal one last time, he lunged forward.

 

The free kick went high.

 

_Puta madre!_

 

That was it.

 

Argentina’s only chance to even stay in the game had vanished, all in an instant. For Leo, everything that followed was a blur; the ensuing commotion failed to reach his ears. All the noise and the uproar that had consumed him moments before vanished in one swift moment. His mind blocked everything, the shouts from the stands and the static running all over his body; it felt as though the entire world had come crashing down and all feelings of hopelessness had consumed him. Everything around him now moved in slow motion and he felt detached, _isolated_ from his surroundings.

 

Running both hands through his hair, he looked over at his teammates and saw the look of rejection and anguish that befell their faces. They knew it was over.

 

The next few minutes passed by in a daze. Leo barely heard the referee blow his whistle over the thoughts running through his head, but the German team’s loud celebration was indication enough that the match was finally over, and Argentina was not going to be the team to kiss the Cup.

 

Lionel surveyed the field; he knew he seemed emotionless on the outside, but those who knew him well enough knew his stoic attitude and silence spoke volumes. Argentina almost had the title and the feeling of anguish was evident on the field. Standing motionless, he scanned the situation. He knew what they all felt, he had been through this before, yet being captain gave him a different, more painful perspective. After all, he carried the biggest responsibility.

 

He noticed some guys hunched over on the grass, silent tears falling down their faces. Some paced around the field with vacant expressions while others were inconsolable, but they all shared the same feeling of disappointment. He had been so close— _so fucking close_ —yet he had failed to deliver. He had failed his team and his country, but worse of all, he had failed himself. All the hard work his team had put in throughout the year had been for nothing, gone to waste.

 

It was a peculiar feeling for Leo, being so detached from the moment yet _so immersed_ at the same time. It hurt his head. He couldn’t think, yet millions of thoughts ran through his mind. He felt numb, yet static ran through his entire body like a fuse. Everything felt misplaced, distorted. He felt it all.

 

He was both within and without.

 

——

 

The VIP area buzzed with excited chatter; a new champion had just been crowned and the general consensus was that Germany deserved it. Taking it all in, the man surveyed the scene unfolding below. Waves of white decorated the stadium while upbeat, generic pop music blasted through the speakers and traveled its way through the swarm of onlookers. Many wore faces of victory, wore pride on their sleeve and sung praises to the sky, hoping someone— _anyone_ —would listen. But where there were smiles there were tears as well, mostly from albiceleste devotees, and the grieving minority could not quite live up to the stadium’s overall cheerful energy.

 

Yet throughout the celebrations, throughout the praise and the excitement and _all that fucking confetti_ , there was one face that stood out from the rest and caught his attention. Lionel Messi was not a complicated man, much less a hard man, but in that moment he’d give anything to know what was going through the forward’s head. It surprised him, really. Never before had he taken much of an interest in his fellow rival, yet there he was, intrigued and very much perplexed. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and relaxed into his seat.

 

 _Why now?_ he asked himself. _Why the sudden interest?_

 

He stared at the field as if searching for an answer and saw Lionel standing motionless, hands on his hips and a dead, vacant expression on his face. In that moment, he sympathized with him; although he had rooted for Germany, he couldn’t help but feel a mutual understanding with the man. Maybe it was the way he knew that despite his appearance, Lionel was falling apart on the inside, but as captain he couldn’t show it. He couldn’t allow his country or his team to see him in that state, he couldn’t let them see that side of him and Cristiano understood it all. He knew very well how it felt because he’d _been there, done that_ and the pressure had never failed to push him to a breaking point.

 

Although many would argue it, empathy wasn’t a foreign feeling to him but he couldn’t pinpoint why this time his empathy was directed at his biggest rival. Maybe it was the fact that deep down, he knew Lionel was his only equal match in skill and he deserved a victory for his country, that somehow he was being robbed of something he should have had a long time ago. _Maybe_ , he thought, but no that wasn’t quite it—that wasn’t the whole reason and he mused he’d probably never have the right answer.

 

Something about Lionel had intrigued him, had stirred a feeling deep in his heart that felt foreign and out of place, and he couldn’t explain it. For the first time in a long time, he began to perceive his rival in a new light, one without indifference. It was true he had always admired Lionel and he felt as though they shared a mutual responsibility in being considered the top two players in the world, but never before had he discovered the argentinian’s pain to be the cause of his own.

 

There was something he shared with Lionel, something he didn't have with anyone else—a certain feeling of knowing the only person that understood how it felt to be in his position, to work as hard as he did and be his greatest critic, the only other person who knew exactly what it felt like to be judged by the whole world, was Lionel.

 

It was frustrating not having any answers to his internal dilemma, and in that moment he decided that one way or another he was going to find some.

 

“Cristiano,” a voice called out, reeling him back from his trance. He turned to see Sergio staring at him expectantly, a curious look in his eye. He hesitated before asking, “You okay?”

 

Cristiano nodded absent-mindedly. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he lied. “Sorry about that.”

 

Sergio didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t press him. They stood up to leave.

 

“Let’s go grab a bite ‘cause I’m starving,” the spaniard urged, nudging his arm.“It’s on you this time,” he added, throwing him a wink.

 

A smile crept up Cristiano’s face as he rolled his eyes. “Do you forget I pay for everything already? You know, I'm more than just my paycheck, _rey_.”

 

“And you know you can’t refuse me, so don’t argue with me. _You_ forget you're my sugar papi.”

 

Cristiano groaned, making a face. “Try not to remind me in public, it hurts my ego.”

 

Sergio laughed and pat his shoulder, leading him out of the stands. As they were leaving, something took hold of Cristiano and he couldn’t help but steal one last glance at the grieving man on the field, the one who had caught his attention and stirred something deep inside him.

 

The same man who had taken up residence inside his mind and didn’t seem to want to leave. Consumed by his thoughts and confused by it all, Cristiano left.

 

——

 

The car loomed past city lights as they twisted and blurred, taking on different shapes, different sizes. The lights were bold in color, harsh in movement. The city was coming alive yet again as tourists mixed with locals for a night out on the town, celebrations surely popping up everywhere. Cristiano sat in the backseat of the luxurious rental, deep in thought. The events from earlier still troubled him and planted a seed of doubt in his mind that only seemed to flourish with passing time. He wasn’t quite sure why he felt this way or why he couldn’t think of much else, but it bothered him. Where had all this come from?

 

He hadn’t been able to concentrate during dinner and Sergio had noticed. Hell, everyone had noticed. His mind wasn’t where it needed to be nor where he wanted it to be, and unlike most things in his life, he couldn’t control it. It troubled him to think it should have been a simple gesture, really—glancing at Lionel in his most vulnerable moment shouldn’t have meant anything, but it did. He should have been able to easily walk away with complete indifference, like many times before, but he couldn’t.

 

Glancing at the passing scenery outside, he pressed his forehead on the cool window glass and closed his eyes. The glass felt refreshing against his skin as he sensed his insides slowly burning up. He swallowed, but he couldn’t get rid of the knot that had formed in his throat. His nerves seemed to have consumed him entirely.

 

He felt himself dozing off when Sergio’s shrill ringtone suddenly went off and interrupted any thoughts of sleep. In that moment, he realized how tired he actually was and pulled out his phone, lazily answering a few texts ( _sim mãe, I’m fine. yes Germany won. yes I just ate_ ) and browsing through a few emails as Sergio continued talking on the phone and _fuck, why am I still thinking about this?_

 

 _Get a grip_ , he thought. Yet the conflict lingered, and he figured it would probably never leave. He knew he needed to do something, or else he—

 

“Hey, check this out,” Sergio said suddenly, holding up the blank phone screen to his face. He hadn’t noticed him hanging up. “It says here you’re a little bitch.”

 

Cristiano deadpanned him for a moment before letting out a snort, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Fuck off,” he laughed, nudging him on the side. He knew Sergio always found a way to make him laugh, no matter what. He quickly felt a sense of relief from his encumbering thoughts. He somehow always knew exactly what Cristiano needed, and he was grateful he’d found someone like him.

 

It also comforted Cristiano to know there was someone weirder than him in the world.

 

“No but really, man,” Sergio chuckled, wiping his left eye. “What’s going on? You’ve been acting weird since the match. You know, I read on WebMD that stress causes pimples, heartburn, nausea and. . . early signs of _aging_.”

 

Cristiano shifted in his seat—damn it, he was good. “What’s your point, rey?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“My point is that you're stupid,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “How many years have we known each other?”

 

“Five.”

 

“Yes and—Wait five, really? I thought it was six,” he wondered, mostly to himself. “Anyway, you should know that I know you better than anyone. Something's up with you and I want to tell you that I’m here for you.” He lightly tapped Cristiano’s knee with his phone. “Now spill the beer, come on.”

 

He wanted to tell him, he really did. Especially when Sergio gave him that stern, big brother kind of look—it was hard to resist. But something held him back, something that hadn’t before and if he knew one person that understood him better than he understood himself, it was Sergio. Cristiano hesitated, not entirely because he feared his opinion, but because he didn’t really think the issue was important enough to discuss. And maybe that was the problem.

 

He didn’t have answers for how he felt, and his fear of putting too much emphasis on the situation prevented him from getting closer to finding any.

 

Instead, he shook his head. “It’s not important,” he lied.

 

He turned his head and looked out the window once again, trying hard to ignore Sergio’s piercing glare. He knew him too well to know he was lying, yet he didn’t press him further.

 

Sergio figured he’d get it out of him later.

 

Moments passed before Cristiano noticed the familiar cylindrical structure of Maracana looming closer as they made their way back to the hotel. His chest suddenly tightened. A burning sensation quickly passed through his whole body and on impulse, he reached out and tapped the driver.

 

“ _Pare aqui_ ,” he ordered hastily, before he could change his mind.

 

Sergio threw him an alarmed look. “What are you doing?” His voice was low, cautious.

 

The car stopped. Unable to even answer that himself, Cristiano looked at him and shook his head. “I don’t know.” This time he wasn’t lying.

 

Sergio peered at him curiously for a moment before taking a deep breath and slowly nodding his head. Deep inside, Cristiano knew he wouldn’t ask questions. At least not now.

 

“You’re going to be okay?”

 

Cristiano nodded.

 

“Text me when you're back at the hotel.”

 

——

 

The grass under his bare feet felt cold. The air around him felt warm. He wasn’t quite sure what had brought him back here, had reeled him in so hard it tugged at his heartstrings, but he appreciated the silence. He always found peace on the field, even amongst the chaos. He knew this was the only place where he could unwind, where the ball and him became one. But this was not a normal night, nor an easy one—simple ball tricks could not erase the events from earlier, and deep down he knew nothing ever could.

 

Carrying his country’s expectations on his back alone was no simple job and he knew many would crack from the pressure. Even now, with hundreds of titles, awards and accolades to his name, his edges were rough, his seams torn. He was a strong man, but even strength has its limits.

 

Even Lionel Messi has a breaking point.

 

He dragged a lazy hand down his face and leaned back until his back pressed into the cool grass. Sighing deeply, he gazed at the sky. In moments like this, he wished he was somewhere in the country, alone in a place where he could look up and get lost in the stars. The stadium lights were bright, but he didn’t care. For the first time in weeks, his mind was becoming numb and silent. The events from earlier had played and replayed in his mind for hours, as if thinking about it could change the outcome. However, nothing could change the fact that he had failed to deliver glory to Argentina. His mind had worked overtime trying to figure out what he had done wrong, what he could improve, how it would have _felt_ to carry that Cup and press it to his lips.

 

Sweet victory had escaped him once again and it haunted him to think he may never deliver Argentina a title. Getting lost in thought and feeling drained, he began to fall asleep on the grass.

 

He was beginning to doze off when the loud echo of a heavy door being slammed jerked him wide awake. Lionel sat up impulsively and looked around the stadium, panting slightly but seeing no one. He ran a quick hand through his hair and was about to call out for someone—anyone—when he heard a familiar voice call out to him from behind.

 

A shiver shot up his spine and his blood ran cold as he realized who the voice belonged to.

 

“Leo?”

 

 


End file.
